


Down in A Hole

by sixbucksandwingless (ed_geins_tailor)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean's thoughts late at night, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel implied, M/M, Mark of Cain, One Shot, Season 9 canon compliant, dark and angsty, mention of 9x03, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ed_geins_tailor/pseuds/sixbucksandwingless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot. Dean's thoughts late at night as he contemplates what could have been. Season 9 canon compliant so far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down in A Hole

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song "Down in a Hole", by Alice in Chains.

It’s nights like this when you wish things were different.

Nights like this, when the whiskey just won’t numb everything, when the mark on your arm burns so intensely you wish you could dig it out with your fingernails.

Nights like this when you wish _he_ was here.

You wish you could take that stupid tan coat off his shoulders, coax him out of the suit, pull him down beside you, and hold him. Just hold him. 

You want to see if his heart would beat as rapidly as it did when you hugged him in Purgatory, even though you knew for a fact an angel’s vessel didn’t need a heart to survive.

You want to know if his skin would be as warm and soft as it was when you finally brought him home to the bunker after that awful fucking mess with the reaper, and you showed him to the bathroom to shower and change; when you couldn’t help but run a finger down the scruff on his jaw, and those electric blue eyes watched you with something like hope.

You want to finally see if his lips taste as good as you always dreamed they would.

You want him on you, curled around you, _inside_ you. You want him on top of you, or you on top of him, and look into his eyes and tell him, oh, just tell him.

You want the afterwards, the sweat, the breathing into each other, the heat, arms and legs tangled together until you aren’t two separate creatures anymore, but one.

You want soft whispers, promises against your skin, things you know deep down he would say to you, and you to him. 

You want his love; deep, abiding, unshakable. And you want to give him yours, this fragile thing you’ve protected behind a thousand walls for so very long.

But instead, you have two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black left in the bottle on your bedside table and the fucking Mark of Cain burning on your forearm, and he is so far away right now.

If this were a fairy tale, he could come and kiss away the poison, love away the curse, turn you from a beast into a man again.

But this is no fairy tale.

And that Mark on your arm promises no happy endings. For anyone.


End file.
